


The Nutcracker

by Marguerite Muguet (margueritem)



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 07:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/margueritem/pseuds/Marguerite%20Muguet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos is given a nutcracker for Christmas</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nutcracker

**Author's Note:**

> Written some time before 2002.
> 
> Thanks to Julia for the beta. All remaining errors are mine.

Each 24th of December, Lord George Gordon Noel Byron - whom we shall call simply Lord Byron from now on for the sake of keeping the reader with us - always organised the most extravagant, decadent and perverse Christmas Eve parties. It was well attended, and no one really important missed it, of course. Each year, hundreds of people were reunited at Lord Byron’s winter estate to drink in abundance, eat copiously, do sinful things and admire the lord’s possessions and castle.  
Each room was decorated differently: mural paintings on the ceiling, delicately carved chairs, tables and candelabras, fresh and rare flowers and a Christmas decoration handmade in each room. The main attraction, however, was the main room, where the Christmas tree was. It was tall, and loomed over the guests, heavy with delicate ornaments and candles. It filled the air with a fresh pine smell, and it was the main source of light in the room. At its base, wrapped gifts had been placed; they were beautiful with their colourful papers and bows, but they were hollow inside. They weren’t meant for anyone.

Most of the guest ignored these since they knew they were there as decoration only. Most, but not all of them. Sitting close to the Christmas tree, Methos was trying to alleviate his boredom by linking each box with a person present in the room. So far, even if it kept his mind busy, it only reminded him on how superficial most of those around him were. He hadn’t wanted to come, but his brothers had insisted and threatened until he’d given in. You might wonder at the names of these four sons, but their parents were extravagant people who liked to surprise those around them. Methos was the oldest of them and the most educated, followed by Kronos, who was having a brilliant career in the English army. Next was Caspian, who was having a not so brilliant career in the same army – there had been some ‘incidents.’ Silas was the youngest of them, and he was studying with a private tutor.

Their parents didn’t like to throw parties themselves, and they usually found someone to invite them. This year had been no different, and Kronos, following in his parents’ footsteps, had done the same by getting invitations for all of them. Silas had been very pleased because he wanted to see all the exotic animals Lord Byron kept in his menagerie. Caspian was sure to find someone to entertain himself with, and Kronos was happy to take the free drinks and food. The fact that there were plenty of willing partners in parties like this one didn’t hurt either.

Methos, however, didn’t find anything interesting for himself. Most of the people present were lightheads, and he craved intelligent conversations as much as a poor man craves for food. Not that Lord Byron wasn’t an intelligent man, but their brief affair of last spring had put an end to their friendship. Those few nights with Byron had been intense, full of passion. However, they had been nothing more than an affair, nothing to cry over when it ended, nothing to miss during the cold and sleepless nights. He would have preferred to spend all Christmas Eve and day in his library, but here he was, sitting in a corner and linking people to lifeless boxes.

Looking at the people mingling, Methos saw two of his brothers, Kronos and Caspian, walking towards him. Caspian had a satisfied smile on his face, and Methos knew, without a doubt, that his brother had found someone. Kronos was holding a drink in each hand and was listening to his brother talk. When they joined him, Kronos handed him a glass.

“Here, brother, you look as if you need it.”

“Thanks.” Methos took a sip and discovered it was ale. He smiled to his brother; ale always helped his mood.

“Where’s Silas?” asked Kronos.

“Still with the animals, I’m sure,” answered Caspian with contempt before Methos could.

Preferring Silas to Caspian, Methos replied, “Well, they must have a more interesting conversation than these puppets.”

Kronos laughed, and Caspian only sneered at him.

“I hope you won’t mind us staying the night. Lord Byron has graciously offered to lodge us tonight.”

His brother knew perfectly well he did mind.

“Why can’t we go back? I’m tired of all these people.”

“There’s a storm outside, brother. I know you; you hate snow and cold more than you hate idiots.”

Methos groaned at hearing this. He supposed he could leave in spite of the storm, but he shivered at the thought of the wind and snow. Moreover, he could get lost if the storm was so hard that Kronos judged it preferable to stay here for the night. Compared to all that, staying here seemed almost bearable. Maybe he could go and sleep in the gardens with the animals? Methos was sure Silas would be there all night if he could get away with it. /Lets look at the bright side; at least Byron won’t bother me tonight. In this mood I’m in, I’m bound to do something stupid./

“Well, I’ll be damned. What is *he* doing here?” Methos followed Kronos’ gaze and was surprised. The mysterious ‘he’ turned out to be Darius, a priest and friend of Methos. Methos got up, pleased if puzzled by this arrival, and watched as Darius came to them. His friend normally frowned upon this kind of festivities, especially as a celebration of the birth of Christ, and if Darius was here, then hell had frozen over.

“Darius, my friend, what a pleasant surprise!” Methos said when Darius stopped in front of him.

“I imagine so. It’s good to see you too, Methos. Kronos, Caspian,” Darius nodded to them and got nods in return.

“What are you doing here?” asked Methos.

“Even if I don’t usually come to these parties,” Darius looked around and frowned at some of the things he saw, “I came to give you a gift.”

Methos’ gaze was brought to the box that his friend was extending towards him. It had been in Darius’ arm, but Methos hadn’t really paid any attention to it. He gave his empty glass to Kronos and took Darius’ gift. It was a long rectangular box; it wasn’t wrapped, no bow, no ribbon. Methos thanked his friend, not knowing really what to say, and opened it. After taking out some of the tissue paper, he discovered a nutcracker inside. He got it out of the box, which Darius took back.

The nutcracker was made of wood, with its limbs all straight, and its big head mismatched with its body. It had a frozen look to it, as if it had been caught smiling, its eyes were wide open, and it showed its long white teeth. Methos moved its dark brown braid, and the mouth opened and closed obediently. It was dressed in a dark blue and green kilt and a white shirt.

Looking at it, looking at its big sad brown eyes, Methos couldn’t help but think that the nutcracker seemed very unhappy. It had been made to crack nuts, but he could easily imagine it staring out of a window in a shop, longing to got out and find something else to do. ‘You and me both, nutcracker.’ Methos touched its face, its wooden hair, softly, lost in thought.

“You gave him a nutcracker?”

Caspian’s voice shattered his contemplation of the gift and brought Methos back to reality. He reluctantly tore his eyes away from it, and looked at Darius. Ignoring his brother, he thanked his friend once again.

“It is a beautiful gift, my friend.”

Caspian snorted and left; Kronos didn’t say anything, but his eyes went from the nutcracker to Darius. The priest smiled at Methos and ignored Caspian’s words and Kronos’ stare.

“Yes, he is beautiful, but he is also very special.” Darius grabbed a chair nearby and pulled it close to the one Methos had been sitting on. He sat down, and Methos followed suit, the nutcracker still in his arms. “Let me tell you a story about this nutcracker.”

“Can I see it?” interrupted Kronos, his hands already reaching for the nutcracker.

“No!” Methos reaction was immediate, and he put it out of Kronos’ reach. “I know how *delicate* you are with things.”

Kronos smiled and said, “You could have gotten him something else than a Scottish barbarian, Priest,” before leaving. He disappearing in the crowd, leaving the two friends alone.

“So this story you were going to tell me...” asked Methos after a few moments had passed, and he was sure neither Kronos nor Caspian was coming back

Darius leaned back a bit, and found a comfortable position before he spoke.

“Ah yes, I was about to tell you about this nutcracker. Some years back, a man came to my church to leave it to my care. His name was Hugh Fitzcairn, but everyone called him Fitz, and he’s the one who told me this tale. It takes place in a castle of an English lord, Lord Rosemont, who had a charming wife, Mary, and a beautiful daughter named Elizabeth. Elizabeth had long blonde hair that seemed to have been made of the softest silks of China. She had pale skin, soft as baby’s and as white and unblemished as a cloud. Her eyes were of the deepest blue, and it is said that many painters went mad trying to reproduce their colour. Her personality, however, wasn’t as perfect as her looks. She spent a little too much time in front of mirrors; she liked being surrounded only by things and people equal to her beauty, and she had no fondness for the non-English natives, namely the Scots. But her parents loved her as only parents can, despite all this, and they gave her everything she wanted. Among other things, they gave her nuts. You see, Elizabeth loved nuts and could spend an entire afternoon eating nuts of different kinds. Of course, like in any fairy tale that deserves the name, this obsession would have dire consequences for the young lady.

“Elizabeth liked the nuts one found in the north of France, those from Spain, those from England, but particularly, the very rare nuts of the Highlands. She had discovered these nuts one day, when, thinking of pleasing the daughter of his host, a Scottish lord gave her a pouch of these rare nuts. Disdaining them at first, she gave them to her lady in waiting, who ate one and who urged Elizabeth to try one of them. Overcoming her scorn of everything Scottish, she ate one and soon after there were none left in the pouch. She sent her lady in waiting to their guest to learn where the nuts had come from and how soon she could have more. Soon, the girl was back with the news. It seems that this particular nut can only be found on one tree that is in a wild forest. This tree, however, is guarded by the mouse people, who are lead by the Mouse Queen, who has magic powers, and her son, the Mouse Prince. No one can take nuts without asking the Queen’s permission and paying a price.

“When Rosemont learned this from his hungry daughter, he sent one of his men to ask the Mouse Queen to come to his castle. The Mouse Queen came with some of her court. Hearing the lord’s wish for some of her nuts, the Mouse Queen asked, ‘Who will eat them?’ The lord said they were for his daughter, who loved nuts, and the Queen replied that the daughter would be the one to pay the price. Elizabeth asked what the price was, and the Queen said she’d have to kiss her son, the Mouse Prince. The young lady looked at the mouse, dismayed, but her craving for the special nuts made her accept the price on the condition that she be allowed to pay after eating the nuts. The Queen decided to trust her and her honour. Believing the girl’s word, the Mouse Queen accepted the condition and told her they would come back the following morning with the nuts.

“And the following morning, she came back with her son this time. Seeing the nuts, Elizabeth’s mouth watered, she forgot all her manners and devoured the nuts. When there were no more, the Queen reminded the girl of the payment. Elizabeth looked at the Mouse Prince - who wasn’t bad looking for a mouse; he was a prince after all – and, her appetite satisfied, refused to kiss him. Outraged, the Mouse Queen turned to the father. ‘How dare she? She ate all my nuts, and now she refuses to pay for them! Where is the honour you should have taught her? Remind her that she has to keep her word.’

“Rosemont was in an uncomfortable position. On the one hand, he didn’t want his daughter to kiss a mouse, but, on the other hand, they had to keep the Queen happy if they wanted more nuts in the future. However, one look at his daughter’s half-pleading, half-disgusted face made him come to a wrong decision. ‘My daughter doesn’t have to keep her word towards a Scottish mouse. The payment you want is ridiculous; she doesn’t have to pay for the nuts.’

“After saying this, the English lord told his soldiers to chase the mice away. Furious at the broken word and at the dismissal of her loyal subjects, the Mouse Queen cursed the young girl and wished her unhappiness by loosing what she held most dear. Before the guard could chase her away or stop her, she bit Elizabeth’s ankle and ran away with her subjects.

“When all the mice were gone, and the panic over the bitten ankle had ebbed, a cry was heard and everyone’s gaze turned to the crying Elizabeth and to her mother. What everyone saw there drew shocked gasps and exclamations from many throats; Elizabeth’s beauty was no more. Her hair was lifeless and dull; her skin had a green complexion, and it was dry and peeling. Also, her pearl white teeth were now yellow and uneven. Elizabeth, however, didn’t know all this; she was crying because of the bite. When she quieted down, she realised everyone was silently staring at her. Asking what was wrong, a brave - or cruel - soul brought her a mirror. What she saw there brought back the tears, and she ran to hide in her bedroom while her parents cried over their misfortune.

“She didn’t come out for many days, looking forlornly in the mirror and allowing only her mother and her lady in waiting to see and tend to her. Her father, heart-broken by his daughter’s unhappiness, sent soldiers to the nut tree to take it down, and declared that all mice should be killed on sight. Many mice – most of them innocent of any crime – were killed in those first days, but the soldiers never found the tree, which must have been magically hidden. After days of fruitless killing and search, Lord Rosemont reunited all the scholars present in his castle and demanded that they find a cure. These scholars spent several sleepless nights reading books on mice, curses, magic, and other related things. Among these scholars was a young priest named Darius, like me. On one of these sleepless nights, Darius had an idea born of instinct and of logic; he decided to read a book the library had on nuts. Darius had thought of Elizabeth’s unusual craving for every kind of nuts; maybe something could be found there. His idea was the right one, and he soon found the cure for the curse put on Elizabeth by the Mouse Queen.

“As it was morning, Darius asked for an audience with his lord. Rosemont was immensely happy, and sent someone to tell the news to his wife up in their daughter’s bedroom. Soon, the good news had been heard by the household: Elizabeth could be cured. Many breathed out a sigh of relief, some because they cared for her, others because life had been hell for them since the curse. To be cured, Elizabeth had to eat a Kratakuk nut. It was a common enough nut, but it was so hard that only the strongest metal in the strongest hand could crack it. However, for the cure to work, the nut had to be cracked by the teeth of a young man who then had to walk backwards seven steps, his eyes blindfolded. Rosemont decided to put an announcement out where he said he would give his daughter’s hand to whomever succeeded in the task. Many came, many tried, all of them failed. Day after day, suitors would come and break their teeth on the Kratakuk nut or would tumble before the seven steps were made. Elizabeth, who had found hope and had come out of her room, watched suitor after suitor kill bit by bit her hope until nothing but bitterness remained.

“You may wonder what happened to the Scottish lord who first gave the nuts to Elizabeth. His name was Ian MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. He and his clan were among the first to suffer from Rosemont’s grief. Because Ian MacLeod was, in his mind, responsible for all that had happened, the English lord made him pay for it. He raised the taxes for the MacLeod clan only, and his soldiers often threw one of the clan in prison at the merest provocation – real or imaginary. Ian’s only son, Duncan, saw only one way for the English to leave them alone. Duncan had good teeth and the grace of a swordsman; he thought he could cure the cursed girl. He wasn’t particularly fond of the idea of marrying the daughter of the English lord – he thought she was vain and obnoxious -, but he had to at least try for the good of his clan.

“His mind made up, he left one morning for the castle with his friend Fitz. He didn’t tell his father, knowing he would only be told to stay and to stop thinking foolish things. For better or for worse, Duncan MacLeod was going to go and try. When they got to the castle, Duncan told a guard on duty the reason of their coming. They were lead to the main hall where Lord Rosemont was sitting, his wife on one side and his daughter on the other. Beside Elizabeth, standing, Darius was holding a bowl with Kratakut nuts in it. There weren’t many suitors that day, and it was soon Duncan’s turn to try. By now, Rosemont didn’t care who cracked the nut as long as someone did and restored his daughter’s beauty. Duncan’s friend blindfolded him, and Darius gave him a nut. Clenching hard his teeth together, Duncan was able, after long seconds, to break the nut. Giving the nut to Darius, who gave it to Elizabeth to eat, Duncan walked backwards.

“One... two... three...

“Unknown of everybody in the room, from a dark corner, the Mouse Queen was watching all this with furious eyes. She felt a deep betrayal at the fact that a Scot was trying to make this English girl happy.

“Four... five...

“And it looked as if he was going to succeed. Two more steps and the young girl would be beautiful once again. The Mouse Queen started chanting a spell, her hands moving with grace in the air.

“Six... seven...

“Duncan stopped walking and removed his blindfold. He looked at Elizabeth and saw that the cure had worked. Her hair, her skin and her teeth were as they had been before. Someone ran to her with a mirror, and she admired her newly found beauty once again in it. Everyone was cheering in the hall, and the happy father had risen from his seat with arms stretched out towards his future son-in-law. In all this rejoicing, nobody heard the Mouse Queen finish her new curse; they could only be witness to the result. Duncan, who was walking with Fitz towards Rosemont, suddenly froze, sharp pain coursing through his whole body. He couldn’t move his legs anymore because he felt as if they had become of wood. Soon, he felt his arms become rigid and insensitive as well; he couldn’t breathe anymore and fell backwards on the floor.

“His friend and everyone else watched, horrified, the nutcracker that was the wooden imitation of Duncan MacLeod. The English lord looked at it for a long time. How could this be? His daughter was now fiancée to a nutcracker! Unbelievable. Coming to the same conclusion, Elizabeth exclaimed, ‘But I can’t marry that! It’s a Scottish nutcracker.’ Those word sealed Fitz’s and Darius’ fate. Rosemont banned them because Darius hadn’t seen this eventuality and Fitz had brought a Scot to break the curse. They both left, hearts heavy, with the nutcracker, and were never heard from again. Their names couldn’t be spoken out loud for fear of punishment, and life went on as before. And if another father grieved for his lost son, well, that wasn’t the concern of the now happy English lord.”

******

Snowflakes were still falling outside, the wind pushing them gently in all directions. The snow now covered everything, and it gave a pure look to the landscape. It was beautiful, but it created shivers down Methos’ back. Even though he was inside, and dressed, Methos still felt the cold in his bones. He was in a bedroom, near the hearth, sitting in a chair. It was around five in the morning, and the party had finally died down. Everybody who had stayed had found a bed where he or she could end the party. Those who hadn’t stayed had been foolish enough to leave some time ago. Who knew if anyone would hear from them again? “Good riddance,” Methos had commented his brothers, who had answered with laughter.

Looking through the window once again, Methos burrowed even more in the covers, thinking of his friend Darius and of the story. After finishing his story, the priest had left despite Methos’ complaints and warnings. He had watched as his friend left the castle on horse until the falling snow blurred and hid his silhouette. Darius had left a pensive Methos and a Scottish nutcracker behind, and Methos retired soon after his departure.

The nutcracker was on the table beside him, looking fixedly at him. Methos met its gaze for long moments, reflecting on how sad the nutcracker looked. ‘Do you regret your decision now, nutcracker?’ he wondered. Methos scoffed at himself; he had always liked fairy tales, but it wouldn’t do to believe one now. Still, the story had been interesting, if only to confirm Methos’ cynical view of people. He took the nutcracker and touched its face as he had done earlier. He made its mouth open and close, pretending the nutcracker was speaking to him. He stopped, thinking just how childish that was, and just looked at it.

He decided to find some nuts for the Scottish lad to crack and got up, covers and all. He grabbed a candle, and he went downstairs to the main room; he was sure he had seen some nuts there. Searching, he finally found some near the tree. Sitting and leaning against the wall, Methos put one nut after the other in the open mouth of the nutcracker and cracked them one by one. He ate them all until he didn’t have any left. Leaving the nutcracker standing near some wrapped boxes, Methos got up and went for more nuts.

As he was coming back, he felt as if the floor moved beneath him for a moment, and he stopped walking. It was as if fog had risen; he couldn’t see anything. He rubbed one hand over his eyes, and he could see again; the dizziness had passed. /God, I must be more tired than I thought. Maybe it’s time.../ In the stillness of the room, he heard a sound. Not just one, but a multitude of them, like tiny nails scraping wood, sounds you hear in the dead of the night, in poor houses. He found the source near a wall: mice. /Rats./ had been his first impression, but the tiny creatures were too small to be rats and they were white. They were getting in the room through a hole that was near the floor, in the wall.

More and more of them were coming in, and he realised that they were walking towards the nutcracker. What he saw then made him blink twice. The nutcracker had moved; he was sure of it. He’d seen its head turn a bit in the direction of the mice, and, as he continued to watch, he saw its whole body moving. It was subtle, at first. Just the upper body turning; then, the legs following. Then, its arms and legs moved; the nutcracker walked to a box and climbed on it. Methos was riveted to the spot and to the sight. He couldn’t believe his eyes or his ears! For the nutcracker was shouting, and one mouse was answering. He must be dreaming.

“Why are you here, Mouse Prince? And why do your loyal subjects advance towards me so?”

One mouse, bigger than the others, was standing on its hind legs, and it answered, “I am no longer a prince, but a king.”

“I am sorry for your lo...” The nutcracker was interrupted by the Mouse King.

“And I am here to avenge the death of my mother. She was killed by an English soldier.”

While they spoke, some branches of the tree were shaking as if a child’s hand was causing it. Before Methos’ bewildered eyes and mind, ornaments fell from the tree: tiny soldiers, little angels, wicked satyrs and slender reindeers. They also moved like any living person or animal, and Methos noticed that they stayed on boxes near the one where the nutcracker was.

“Then seek vengeance on that soldier, although, vengeance will not raise the death. Why are you here?”

One of the soldiers jumped from one box to another until it was near the nutcracker. Methos watched as it gave its sword to its leader.

“You are partly responsible for her death. *You* are the one who helped that lord and his daughter.”

Most mice, by this time, had risen on their hind legs too, and they were brandishing tiny swords and shields.

“I did what I could to help my father and my clan.”

“No matter.”

At those words, the Mouse King raised its sword and shouted out a war cry; the battle was on. From each side, Methos could hear the leaders yell their orders and see them fight beside their followers. It kept going on and on with the mice attacking and the ornaments defending their leader. They fought on boxes, on the floor. Some soldiers and satyrs had mounted the reindeers and had formed a sort of cavalry. Methos watched the unbelievable and understood, as the fighters seemed to loose their steam, that the nutcracker and the ornaments were losing. At that moment, Methos did what he scarcely did: he didn’t think; he reacted. Taking one by one the nuts he had found earlier, he threw them at the mice. More often than not, his aim was sure, and many mice were hit by nuts. From that moment, the outcome of the battle turned, and soon the mice were retreating back through their hole in the wall. The ornaments cheered, but didn’t pursue their enemies; some turned to each other for clasps while others went back to the tree. The nutcracker, however, just looked in Methos’ direction, sheathed its sword and beckoned with one arm. While part of Methos’ mind was wondering what had been in the food, his body was busy answering the call. He knelt in front of the nutcracker, and it talked to him.

“Thank you for your help; we wouldn’t have won without you. My name is Duncan MacLeod.”

The nutcracker... Duncan MacLeod bowed as he finished talking, and Methos jerked in surprised as he recognised the name. Methos berated himself. After all that had happened tonight, he shouldn’t be surprised by a simple name, no matter how great the coincidence. Duncan MacLeod spoke again, “I would like for you to meet my people and to see my kingdom.”

“So then, you are a prince?” He hadn’t been a prince in Darius’ story...

“Why yes. However, it’s nothing but a title. Everybody calls me Duncan; we don’t stand on formalities. So, will you come?”

/Come?/ Methos had some trouble accepting all this was happening. /Ah, yes, to his kingdom./ Why not? If this was a dream, and it could be nothing but, then why couldn’t he go? It made perfect sense in a dream – a fairy tale – to accompany a prince back to his kingdom and his castle too, one could presume. Methos accepted, and the remaining ornaments that had followed their conversation cheered at hearing this. As soon as the words “I would be delighted” were out of his mouth, his height started to decrease at a frightening speed. The next thing he knew, the wrapped boxes were looming over him, and Duncan was peering at him from one of them. With Duncan’s help – he was rather dizzy -, he climbed onto the box. There, Duncan led him towards the tree by jumping and climbing different boxes. They went deeper and deeper until they were near the trunk. Duncan pushed *something* - Methos couldn’t see what – and a hole appeared. Duncan moved out of the way, and gestured for Methos to go in first. “After you.”

Methos looked at the hole, then at Duncan. He entered the trunk. On the other side were... trees. He was in a small clearing, and it was surrounded by trees which had all their leaves. In fact, it seemed he had gone from winter to early summer. When he looked up, he could see a bright sky with some fluffy clouds, and he could feel a breeze caressing his face. Nearby, he heard birds singing. He turned around to see where he had come from, and saw a wall made of wood, and the hole through which he had come was still there. Duncan, who had followed him, was beside him, watching Methos’ face as his guest discovered this new world.

“Do you like it so far?”

“Yes.” And he did like it; it was a beautiful scenery.

Duncan began walking, and Methos had no choice but to follow. Before they took a path Methos hadn’t seen earlier, he turned one last time, and he saw that the hole was still there. They walked, in silence, and Methos wondered if he was supposed to say something. The forest was calm, only birds singing, and it seemed like a sacrilege to break the silence. He decided to wait for Duncan, who was walking alongside him, to say something. For the moment, he would enjoy the scenery. After a time, Methos realised that the path went downhill, and he wondered how far it was to Duncan’s castle. He must have a castle, even if he said he was prince only in title. As if hearing his thoughts, Duncan spoke.

“The castle isn’t far, and we’re going downhill. It makes for an easy walk, don’t you think?”

It was summer, and Methos loved to walk; he could only agree. Only, a question burned in his mind, and he couldn’t resist asking it.

“Tell me, Prince Duncan...”

Duncan smiled, and shook his head. “Please, call me Duncan. No formalities, remember?”

The man had a beautiful smile that really lit his face up, and Methos forgot for a moment what he was going to say... Ah yes.

“Very well, Duncan. Do you not have horses here, in your kingdom?”

“Of course we have. We might find horses or reindeers along the way, and they might be willing to transport us to the castle.”

“Willing? What, you’re going to ask?”

“Of course! It’s the polite thing to do.”

“But they’re horses!”

“And? They deserve some respect.”

“But you’re the prince.”

“I told you; it’s just a title. And using my prince status to get faster to the castle while most of my soldiers are walking wouldn’t be fair.” Duncan shook his head a bit, showing a bemused smile. Suddenly, the smile left his face, and Duncan stopped walking. “You don’t mind walking, do you?”

Methos had stopped as well, and tried to reassure him with a smile before speaking. “No, I don’t. If you say it’s close, a walk will do me good.”

“I could carry you on my back.” Duncan’s face was full of mischief as he said this, and he moved towards Methos.

“Don’t you dare.” They laughed together and resumed their walk.

“Oh, but you never told me your name!”

Methos had been looking at a blue and gold bird he had never seen before when Duncan’s voice brought his gaze back to his companion.

“I’m sorry. I’m Methos.” He stretched out his hand, and Duncan took in a firm grip.

“Methos.” Methos shivered a bit at hearing his name in that deep voice. “That’s an unusual name.” Duncan’s smile and voice told Methos that he didn’t mean any offence, and none was taken.

“My parents have strange ideas on how one should name their children.”

And so they spent their time talking with each other. At first, Duncan talked about his kingdom and people. He spoke of the beautiful swans that graced the lake near the castle, of the different gardens inside and outside the castle ground. He described the castle itself and all the important rooms in it. They had a music room where people could go and listen to music all day if they so wished. They had a gallery where artists of the region exhibited their work of arts, and they had a library, of course, where they put the books which blossomed each summer. /Blossomed?/ Methos wanted to ask, but he didn’t want to interrupt his companion and remained silent.

Soon, the conversation was about Duncan, and then about Methos. They shared life stories, opinions on things, and Methos was pleasantly surprised to discover that Duncan was as educated and literate as he was. They agreed on some things, disagreed on others, but not enough to ruin the pleasure of a stimulating conversation. Duncan was passionate when he spoke, his body language very expressive, and Methos sometimes forgot or chose not to listen and just watch. Some locks, having escaped the braid, framed Duncan’s face, and Duncan was always pulling them back. It brought Methos attention to his companion’s hands. He could imagine them running over his body, feeling the tips of the fingers lightly mapping his body, the whole hand resting on his neck as he... He tried not to get carried away by his imagination, but it was hard. Even knowing Duncan for only a short while, Methos had noticed that Duncan’s eyes were the window to his emotions. He only had to look into them, and he knew what Duncan felt at any moment. It wasn’t just the eyes, the face too; Duncan was an open book. A book Methos wouldn’t mind reading from cover to cover many times.

It pleased Methos to watch Duncan sometimes stop in mid-sentence or to take his time, too much time, to reply. He was glad to note he wasn’t the only one to sometimes lose the thread of the conversation. Maybe he hadn’t imagined those appraising looks, maybe. At one point, the path led them beside a creek. The water was running clear, and the trees created a pleasant shade near it. They stopped for a moment to drink some water.

“We should stop here and rest.” Duncan’s tone made it sound more like a question than a statement, and Methos answered, “I agree.”

Duncan sat on one of the rocks near the creek. He took his sword with its sheath and put it down beside him. Then, he took the end of his braid in one hand and undid it. During the fight, and later because of the wind, some locks had escaped from it. When the braid was undone, Methos saw that Duncan’s hair was long; it reached practically to the middle of his back. The hair flowed in waves, and Methos had the urge to run his fingers through it. He wanted to feel how soft it must be; he wanted to feel it on his skin. He looked around, trying to distract himself. He saw, a little farther down the shore, a strange tree. To the unobservant person, it resembled the other trees in the forest, but strange rectangular shapes could be seen hanging from its branches. Intrigued, Methos asked Duncan, “What is that tree? I’ve never seen one like it before.”

Duncan followed his gaze and answered, “That’s a Book tree.” He said it as if it was obvious, but Methos just looked at him, uncomprehending. “We have plenty of those near the castle.”

“A Book tree?”

“Yes, wait here.” Duncan got up and went to the tree. He jumped repeatedly until he had taken one of those rectangular things from it. Coming back, he showed it, and Methos saw what it was. A book. Logical, he supposed; apple trees gave apples, and book trees gave books. Having joined him, Duncan looked at the book he had picked up. He smiled to him, and said, “I hope you like poetry.”

Duncan gave him the book, and Methos looked at the front cover. It was a collection of Pierre de Ronsard’s poetry; he had read some of his poems. He opened it, and leafed through the book. Looking up, he thanked his companion. Duncan laughed; a gentle breeze pushed his loose hair around. The sun touched it and Duncan’s face, showing him in clear details to Methos’ eye. /So beautiful./

“You shouldn’t be thanking me. If you need to thank someone, thank the tree.”

Methos tipped his head sideways, considering Duncan’s word. He then gazed at the Book tree, and spoke, “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Thank you, Book tree.”

Duncan laughed again, music to Methos’ ears. When Duncan smiled, it made Methos smile back, but when he laughed, Methos’ breath caught in his throat. He felt like grabbing Duncan by the neck and kissing him. He felt like doing crazy things or saying funny things to hear it again.

“Come, sit with me.” Duncan sat on a large rock, big enough for two, and Methos followed suit. “Why don’t you read me a poem? I think poetry is more beautiful when someone reads it to you.”

“You are right.” He remembered a poem he had liked very much, and tried to find it in the book. He found it, turned slightly towards his companion, and began to read.

“The Rose

“See, Mignonne, hath not the Rose, That this morning did unclose Her purple mantle to the light, Lost, before the day be dead, The glory of her raiment red, Her colour, bright as yours is bright?

“Ah, Mignonne, in how few hours, The petals of her purple flowers All have faded, fallen, died; Sad Nature, mother ruinous, That seest thy fair child perish thus 'Twixt matin song and even tide.

“Hear me, my darling, speaking sooth, Gather the fleet flower of your youth, Take ye your pleasure at the best; Be merry ere your beauty flit, For length of days will tarnish it Like roses that were loveliest.”

Methos looked up from the page he had been reading, and saw Duncan gazing at him. Silence. Their eyes met. Only the lapping of the water, the chirping of the birds, the rustle of the leaves. Methos’ gaze trailed down Duncan’s face to rest on his lips; they were slightly opened. Duncan’s words weren’t enough to break the charm.

“It was lovely.”

Methos’ whispered answer – “Yes, lovely.” – was only half heard as his lips touched Duncan’s. It was a simple pressure, almost a chaste kiss, but as Duncan’s lips opened, Methos’ tongue went in search of Duncan’s, and any innocence was left behind as passion took them both. Methos tasted, explored, seduced Duncan’s mouth into sharing pleasure; not that much effort was needed. One of Methos’ hands cradled Duncan’s head, ran through his hair, while the other caressed Duncan’s neck, back, thigh; he ached to touch skin. Duncan’s hands weren’t idle; they were doing their own exploring on Methos’ body. They didn’t stop kissing, even when Duncan pulled Methos towards him to lie on the grass-covered ground.

******

A couple of hours behind schedule, Methos finally got to see the castle. It was as beautiful as Duncan had described it, inside and out. It was all white with a blue roof, and it had been built in a French renaissance style, all in lines with many windows. Duncan led him to the music room, where hundreds of people were gathered. It was spacious, and the sunlight entered through large windows on each side of the room. There was music, and people danced and talked. However, as they entered, only a few people greeted Duncan. As he had said, they didn’t stand on ceremony here. Duncan grabbed two glasses on a table, and led Methos to an archway. They each drank from their glasses, close to one another, sharing glances and touching. Duncan looked down at his drink, and asked, “Do you think you could be happy here?”

Waiting nervously for an answer, Duncan didn’t look up until he felt Methos’ touch on his brow and his cheek.

“Yes.” Methos put his hand on Duncan’s neck, and guided him for a kiss. It was abruptly broken when they heard something heavy hit the floor, followed by the sound of metal ringing. It was soon followed by cries of fear and of warning from the crowd. Looking towards the source of the first sound, Methos saw that a table had fallen, and now plates filled with food and glasses full of wine were smearing the surface. Seeing the armed mice invading the room, Methos corrected himself; the table must have been overturned. People were panicking, and leaving the room. Only those who had swords stayed to defend themselves. Duncan had pushed himself away from him by that time, and he joined the others to fight.

Methos looked around and cursed. The mice were now really too big to be chased away by nuts – even if he could find some-, and he didn’t see any sword he could use. It would be suicidal to fight unarmed, and he was therefore stuck on the sidelines. He could only watch as Duncan and the others fought the remaining mice. There weren’t that many, but they were enough. They were armed with swords, and most importantly, they still had their leader, the Mouse King. People (or mice) always fight more fiercely when they have someone taking the lead.

At long last, there was only the Mouse King left, and it was Duncan who was fighting him. It was a graceful, but deadly and dangerous dance that Methos watched as Duncan defended himself and attacked his enemy. Methos’ heart was in his throat when he saw the Mouse King had drawn blood. Duncan doubled over, one arm covering the gash while the other tried to fend of the mouse’s attacks. Seeing his enemy in a bad position, the king was pressing his attack with heavy blows that came in rapid successions. Duncan kept on moving back under the assault, and he soon found himself hitting one of the still standing tables. Grabbing a glass, he threw its content into the mouse’s eyes. Taking advantage of the temporary blindness, he moved away from the bad position he was in. As soon as the Mouse King could see, he searched for his opponent and continued his attack. However, Duncan was ready this time, and he fought hard with what remained of his strength. One of his thrusts was true, and the Mouse King lost his sword. Duncan finished it by slashing the Mouse King’s gut and by piercing him through and through.

Duncan was leaning on his bloody sword, and wasn’t moving. Worried, Methos began walking towards him.

“Duncan, are you all right?” At his words, Duncan raised his head, and tried to smile. Methos became even more worried at seeing the grey pallor of his lover’s skin. As he got nearer, however, a fog started to form around Methos. Trying to find the source, Methos saw the remaining fighters were lying on the floor. He thought maybe they had died during the fight, but he found it strange for he was sure some had been alive and standing at the end of the battle. He then realised that they were too rigid and straight; they had become once again ornaments. He looked back at Duncan, but he could barely see him. The fog had become thicker, and soon, he couldn’t see anything. He heard Duncan cry “Methos”, and he cried “Duncan!” back, but the fog seemed to swallow his words, and he didn’t hear anything anymore. It became harder and harder to see anything, even his own hand, and the fog seemed to take up all the air around. He couldn’t make a sound; he was suffocating. He lost consciousness.

******

Methos sat up abruptly, panting and short of breath. Gradually, he became aware of hands touching him, of a voice reaching his ears. /Duncan?/ No. Not Duncan. Kronos. Kronos’ hands and Kronos’ voice. His hope was drowned in cold water when he realised this.

“Here, drink this.” A cup was brought to his lips, and Methos drank the wine thirstily. His heart was still beating wildly, and his head was spinning and aching.

“You had us worried, Methos.” Giving back the cup, Methos noted that he was back in his room and on a bed. He was only wearing a nightgown, and the sun was pouring from the window. It faced east; afternoon, then.

“We worried when we found you downstairs, unconscious. Took you long enough to wake up.”

Methos nodded, only part of his mind listening to what his brother was saying. One second he was in the nutcracker’s kingdom, the next he was in his bedroom. He tried to come to terms with the fact that it had all been a dream, a result of his feverish imagination. For it had been a dream; it could be nothing else. It would be foolish, childish, to think otherwise. Such... paradise didn’t exist. His breath caught when he realised he didn’t see his nutcracker anywhere in the room. Interrupting whatever his brother was saying, Methos asked, “Where’s my nutcracker?”

Kronos frowned at his brother, who had gotten up and was dressing. “I don’t know. I didn’t see it.”

Dressed, Methos opened the door and walked rapidly down the hall, the stairs, to the main room and the tree. When he got there, he searched everywhere, but couldn’t find the nutcracker. However, he did find something which disturbed him greatly. Below the tree, on top of a wrapped box, there was a mouse. A big fat dead mouse... Methos picked it up by the tail and stared at it. This could only be a coincidence. A missing nutcracker, a dead mouse and a strange, but wonderful dream: all a coincidence.

“Must be one of Caspian’s leftovers.”

His brother’s voice startled Methos, and he dropped the mouse. He hadn’t realised his brother had followed him; he had been too focused on his search and on his finding.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“After three in the afternoon, close to four.” It was obvious to Methos that Kronos was wondering about him. Finding him unconscious, then, when he woke up, searching for a nutcracker frantically: yes, his brother was wondering about him. Kronos was looking at him, trying with his eyes to pierce his mind and find whatever was wrong with his brother.

“I have to go.” Methos went back to his room, put his winter clothes on and left on horse. Kronos had left him alone when his questions went unanswered and his stares were met by a wall of silence and distance. Methos heard him mutter, “Acting crazy, yet again,” before he left to get a horse ready.

The ride to Darius’ church gave him time to think and to wonder, ‘What are you doing? Why are you going there?’ Darius couldn’t help him find his nutcracker, and the dream was just that, a dream. Before he could decide to turn around and go back to Lord Byron’s estate, or better yet to their house, he arrived at the church. A priest was already outside, taking the reins from him when he got off his horse. Now that he was here, he might as well go inside. It would be harder to explain why he came and left than explain why he came. If he stayed, he could say he was just visiting, coming to confess all his sins to the priest and have a good laugh and conversation with him.

He entered the church and stopped a moment to let his eyes get used to the darkness inside. After the sparkling sun, he felt as if he was blind for a few seconds. When he could see again, he saw Darius in the far left alley and went to meet him.

“My friend, I didn’t expect you here today.” Darius smiled and gestured for him to sit on a bench.

“Well, I thought...” He stopped as he heard the sound of steps behind him.

Darius looked towards the source of the sound and said, “Ah! You’re back. Let me present to you one of my friends, Methos.” At his name, Methos stood, turned around, and his greeting froze on his lips. “Methos, I would like you to meet Duncan MacLeod. Duncan MacLeod, this is the good friend I was talking to you about.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” Duncan smiled, a bit restrained, and held out his hand.

Methos took it and answered him automatically. “Nice to meet you too.”

Like in his dream, the voice was deep and ran pleasant shivers down his spine. The smile was as sweet, his brown eyes just as beautiful as he remembered, and he ached to say something funny so he could hear him laugh. He couldn’t believe it; dreams didn’t come true. But the mouse, the missing nutcracker...

“Duncan is new here. He got here only this morning from the Highlands.” Methos looked at his friend, and saw he was smiling. Was he imagining the pleased look in his eyes? Wasn’t he smiling just a bit too much?

“Really.”

Methos went back to look at his dark beauty and saw Duncan was still looking at him. He felt a bit of heat on his cheeks, and he hoped he wasn’t blushing.

“Yes. It’s most fortuitous that you are here, Methos. I wanted to ask you if you’d be so good as to show Duncan around the city.” Methos was sure he didn’t imagine the smugness in his friends voice.

Before Methos could accept, Duncan said, “Oh! I wouldn’t want to impose. If it’s an inconvenience...”

“No! No inconvenience at all. It would be my pleasure.” Now that he had found his nutcracker back, he wasn’t going to leave him out of his sight again.

Once again, Duncan’s smile was warmer this time, more confident, and Methos smiled back. Their hands had let go of each other, but not their eyes that were locked together. The world faded from around them, and from that day on they were each other’s world.

******

And so, gentle reader, this is how this tale ends. I hope that it made you smile or that it touched your heart, but if it didn’t, let me try again, with another tale.

Once upon a time...


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